


reckless serenade

by thedrugdealingshark



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedrugdealingshark/pseuds/thedrugdealingshark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of all the things he'd left behind, Dean Ambrose wasn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reckless serenade

Out of all the things he'd left behind, Dean Ambrose wasn't one of them.

He’s sitting next to Punk, in the passenger seat of his car, feet propped up on the dashboard and a lopsided smirk present on his features. Baseball cap tilted low over his head, Dean fiddles with the radio, flicking by traffic reports, local advertisements, a song that Punk probably wouldn’t have minded listening to. 

Punk’s got both hands on the steering wheel, staring ahead into the mid-morning Chicago traffic. His jaw is clenched so tightly that, for a split second, he thinks he might break his teeth. 

Dean had always found ways to get underneath Punk’s skin by his mere presence alone. 

And even then, destiny always found a way for them being together. Punk just thought that, since he’d left the WWE, maybe he wouldn’t see Dean ever again. The assumption came with a feeling of relief over all things, but there was still that tiny bit of regret that danced within the pit of his stomach. 

Dean was easy to miss, but easy to hate when you’d been around him for a while. 

“We should stop for coffee,” Dean says. He’s already settled on a radio station: some news report that Punk had heard him flip by about three times already, and when Punk glances over at him, Dean’s leaned back in his seat. “like a Starbucks or something, I could really go for some sugary flavored pig-fat right about now.” 

Punk’s nose wrinkles as he turns his gaze back to the road. “I probably could have too,” He says. “until you described it like that.” 

Out of all the things he’d planned on doing today, chauffeuring Dean Ambrose around to the local coffee shops hadn’t been one of them. 

The WWE was filming in Chicago again, Punk guessed, either that or Dean had tracked him down in his home for no reason in particular. Both options were likely. 

Either way, Dean had turned up on Punk’s doorstep, uninvited and out of the blue, like he was paying an old friend a visit. In some ways, he was, but in others (the ways Punk was more likely to admit to), he was just being an old burden that Punk had to carry around for the rest of the day. 

Dean laughs, quietly to himself, and it helps ease the tense, awkward atmosphere that had formed between them ever since Dean had showed up. “You’re too naive, Punk,” it’s almost weird how _comfortable_ he sounds. “luckily, you have me to show you exactly what all kinds of shit they put in your precious coffee.” 

Punk flexes his fingers on the steering wheel before saying, “Something I probably could’ve went my whole life without knowing.” 

Dean reaches over a nudges at Punk’s arm. “Well, now, you don’t have to.” 

He doesn’t have to look over at him to know Dean’s smiling, his voice practically reeks with it. Punk can picture the smug little smile perfectly in his head. An image that manages to annoy and gratify him at the same time. 

Then again, Dean, himself, has always managed to annoy and gratify Punk at the same time. 

\- - - - - 

“ _Well,_ ” Dean sighs over his steaming hot beverage. “this is nice, isn’t it?” 

Punk’s currently in the process of brooding over his bagel, picking it apart without really eating it. The reminder that Dean’s sitting in front of him comes as somewhat of a unpleasant revival. 

“Yeah,” he says. He can feel Dean staring at him but he doesn’t return the attention. “terrific.” 

“Oh, come on, Punk,” Dean reaches across the table to give Punk’s shoulder a playful shove. Punk shoots him a glare that only Dean could be immune to. “at least act like you're happy to see me. If it were any one else, right now, I'd probably be insulted." 

"Sorry," Punk says without meaning it. 

Dean doesn’t say anything else for the next couple moments. The mingled conversations of the other coffee shop patrons can be heard around them, as well as the sound of clinking silverware and dishes. It’s too peaceful to last forever, and soon, Dean’s huffing from the other side of the table again. 

“So,” only Dean could make the word sound so wry. "what's been goin' on? Been a while since we've seen each other, y’know." 

Punk can’t actually remember the last time they’d seen each other, whether it be fighting or just a casual passing backstage. Dean, though, with a head filled with useless information, probably remembers every detail. 

“Nothing,” Punk shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching downward into a frown. “just - living out my retirement, you know. Enjoying it the best I can.” 

Dean chuckles at this, and Punk finds himself glancing up at him, curious as to what he found humorous about that statement. 

“God,” he draws out the word with disbelief. “you say it like you're one of those old fuckers that only shows up on the special throwback episodes of Raw.” 

Punk manages to smile at this. “Alright, fine,” he says. “what’s been going on with you, then?” 

“Traveling, mostly,” Dean takes a sip of his drink, a contented little sigh escaping through his lips. “Same old, same old.” 

Punk lets his gaze drift back down to his mangled bagel. “Yeah,” he says somewhat bitterly. “I remember what that was like.” 

There’s the barely audible sound of Dean figiting with one of the sugar packets on the table, and it fills the silence that has settled between them yet again. It lets the nostalgia waft away from Punk’s mind and he can focus again. 

“Do you miss it?” Dean asks quietly. 

It’s a hard question to process, one that Punk barely even has the answer to. 

“Nah, not really,” Punk can feel Dean’s eyes on him again. “I mean, a little bit, sometimes - depends on what kind of mood I'm in.” 

Dean’s still fiddling with the sugar packet when he asks, “Do you miss me?” 

Punk knows that Dean’s looking for him to say that he _has_ missed him, and in a way, he has. But, what Punk misses most of all in this very moment is the air of nonchalant casualness that their conversations once held, instead of the serious, emotional one it has now. 

Punk chuckles anyway. “I think that's a definite no.” 

He glances up just in time to see Dean’s face transition from curious to amused all within a split second. 

Dean flicks the sugar packet at Punk, and they’re back to casual. “Asshole.” 

Yeah, maybe Punk has missed Dean. 

\- - - - - 

“Home sweet home,” Punk sighs when he’s unlocking the door to his condo, Dean lurking somewhere behind him. When he gets the door open, he moves aside to let Dean in, and Dean obliges, stepping in past him almost eagerly. 

“Nice place,” Dean’s saying when Punk closes the door behind him, dropping the keys on the coffee table. 

When Punk glances up at him, Dean looks noticeably caught in between trying to look interested, but not too interested in his surroundings. 

“You’ve been here before,” Punk reminds him. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean’s attention is taken to the pile of outdated magazines on Punk’s coffee table, picking one up and flipping through it. “I just wanted to - uh, let you know that - it hadn’t turned into a shithole since then.” 

“Thanks,” Punk’s smiling, definitely not of his own free will. 

Dean glances up from the magazine long enough to throw a smirk in Punk’s direction. “Anytime.” 

\- - - - - 

Once afternoon had rolled around and the sun was sitting low on the horizon, Dean was still occupying Punk’s company. They’d ordered a pizza, which Dean had viciously attacked the moment it arrived, and the two of them were now sitting together on the couch, enjoying the food and each other’s company. 

The empty pizza box is resting on Dean’s lap, and he’s leaned back, bare feet propped up on the coffee table and an arm slung over the back of the couch. The TV remote is clutched lightly in his right hand. Punk’s sitting close enough that Dean’s fingers are grazing against his shoulder, but it’s something he doesn’t necessarily mind. 

Dean’s flicking through the channels just like he had with the radio while Punk finishes up the last of his pizza slice. 

Once Dean settles on a channel (the news, but Punk automatically assumes it has something to do with the attractive female anchor), he turns to Punk and grins. “I really fucking miss this.” 

Punk wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What?” 

“ _This,_ ” Dean gestures between the two of them animatedly. “ you - us, you know, bein' together.” 

Punk starts to reply with something along the lines of ‘well, that makes one of us.’, but honestly, he’s all out of asshole juice for right now, so instead, he settles on, “Yeah, me too.” 

Dean gives him a look with the expected amount of surprise. “Was that a confession?” 

Punk shrugs. “It’s whatever you want it to be.” 

Dean laughs at this, short and choppy, and uses the hand grazing at Punk’s shoulder to flick at him. “You know, you don't have to act so hard all the time, Punk, it's contagious.” 

“ _You're_ fucking contagious,” Punk says, and finds himself laughing along. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, the hint of humor still lingering within his tone. “but you like it, anyway.” 

Punk’s stomach does a flip at the statement and Dean brushes his fingers against Punk’s shoulder once more, as if to elaborate. This would imply that Punk _liked_ Dean, maybe as a friend, and maybe as something more. 

Which, he had at one time, sometime long ago when Dean was still with the Shield and Punk was still employed with the WWE. They’d had a thing. A meaningless thing that Punk hadn’t even recalled upon until now. 

But, that was then. 

And then was over, the thing didn’t exist anymore. 

But, Dean still liked him. He’d been giving Punk the pieces all day, and it wasn’t until now that Punk had finally put them together. 

Dean still liked him. 

And, maybe, in some twisted sense, Punk liked Dean, too. 

\- - - - - 

When it’s well past midnight, and Dean’s at the door, getting ready to leave, he kisses Punk. 

It’s not completely unexpected, but it manages to surprise Punk anyway. 

Dean’s got one hand on the door knob, and he’s in the process of opening the door, but he turns back, like he’s forgotten something and just grabs Punk by the collar of his shirt with his free hand. Punk more or less falls into the kiss and if he hadn’t been close enough, the kiss probably would’ve never happened, but it did. Fate’s funny that way. 

The kiss is quick, sloppy, and meaningless. 

Simple. 

A kiss goodnight. 

Dean’s smashing his lips against Punk’s so hard he thinks he might bruise them, and it’s not the best kiss Punk’s ever had before, but it manages to ignite something in the pit of his stomach. 

And without really knowing why, Punk doesn’t want Dean to leave, and is shoving the door closed behind them. He pushes Dean up against the door, all needy and desperate, and Dean huffs out a laugh against Punk’s lips. 

“We’re gettin’ a little aggressive, aren’t we?” Dean’s wry humor is back for another countless appearance. 

“Shut up,” Punk hisses against Dean’s lips, shoving him up against the door a little harder just to put meaning behind the words. 

Dean makes a little cut-off noise in the back of his throat, which Punk breathes in and keeps going. He likes the way Dean kisses him back, automatically, as if it’s an instinctive reflex that he, himself, doesn’t even know about. 

Dean’s laughing again, laughing into the kiss, and Punk jerks his head back to shoot him a glare. The look doesn’t seem to phase Dean in the slightest. 

“Is that any way to treat a guest, Punk?” Dean really just doesn’t know when to shut up, does he? “Where are your manners?” 

Dean’s hand has settled to gripping at Punk’s shoulder, the other dangling by his side like he hasn’t figured out where to put it yet. His gaze noticeably flickers down to Punk’s lips and back up again. 

“Do you wanna fuck or not?” Punk doesn’t even realize the words are out of his mouth until he sees Dean stifling back another laugh, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. It’s like one of those instances where you say something you were supposed to be thinking, and Punk would’ve probably been embarrassed if placed in another situation. 

“Well,” Dean draws the word out. “when you put it like that-” 

Punk really isn’t interested in what Dean has to say anymore, and smashes their lips together again in a successful attempt to shut Dean up for good. 

It works, and they can finally get back to the matter at hand. 

\- - - - - 

"Oh my god," Punk's saying. He's seated between Dean's thighs, rocking himself in short but fluid motions. His head is dangled back and he's more or less staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom through heavy eyelids. 

"Yeah," Dean grinds the word out beneath him, and he's gripping at Punk's hips so tightly he thinks he might leave bruises behind. Not a matter important enough for either of them to worry about at the moment. 

Punk leans forward, towering over Dean at an angle, and his hands bunch up in the sheets beneath him for support. He can see Dean's face properly now, and even in the dim lighting of his bedside lamp, Punk can still make out the focused expression currently etched into Dean's features. 

Dean glances up to meet Punk's gaze, tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lip, and his eyes fall back down again. 

The bed creaks with every move they make, sounding like one of those old cars that bounce up and down. Punk almost laughs at the comparison. It's not unwelcome against the silence and the sound of his and Dean's panting. They sound exhausted. They probably are, just haven't taken the time to notice yet. 

"Fuck," Dean says, the word curling out of his mouth and dispersing into the air like smoke. Punk agrees with that statement. Fuck, indeed. 

Punk's bracing himself on Dean's shoulders with both of his hands, now, fingernails digging down into the skin. It probably hurts Dean, but he doesn't look anywhere close to minding. And he's moving: rapidly, quickly. Grinding himself down into Dean mercilessly. 

The creaks of the bed springs pick up speed, as does Dean's breathing. 

Punk tilts his head back, looking to the ceiling once more, and he's gasping when he comes. Short, sputtery little breaths that tickle the back of his throat. He'll probably be bitter over the fact that he was the one to come first later in time. 

But, even then, Dean comes in at a close second, and he's laughing, all breathless and astonished like it's the best orgasm he's ever experienced before. 

Punk'll tell himself that it most likely was, just to add to his ego. 

Punk slumps down on top of him, Dean slipping out of him easily enough. The whole experience should feel dirty and shameful, and Punk's a little confused as to why it doesn't. Every time before now had, so what changed? 

Dean tucks his head in the crook of Punk’s neck like he belongs there and Punk can’t help but relax into the gesture. In the midst of the silence, Punk can hear the television switch to commercial in the living room, forgotten and abandoned. 

Oddly enough, this is probably got to be the most peaceful of moments he’s ever shared with Dean. 

“You okay?” Dean mumbles the question against Punk’s skin, and it’s far too caring to be coming from him, but Punk doesn’t feel like psychoanalyzing it. 

“Yeah,” Punk replies, sighing the word out with a hint of relief. “You?” 

“I’m grand, princess,” Dean says, his tone doused in mocking playfulness. Punk can feel him smiling against his neck. 

“Shut up,” Punk says without really meaning it. 

“Make me,” 

At any other time, Punk would’ve taken him up on that offer, but for right now, it’s all he can do but not fall asleep. The weariness is finally managing to sink in. 

Dean nudges Punk off of him, gently and carefully, before hopping out of bed and stumbling off toward the bathroom to clean himself off. 

Punk’s managed to drift off to sleep at least four times before Dean returns, settling back down beside him with a loud, exaggerated yawn. 

Punk’s lying on his side, facing away from Dean, and he feels an arm snake around his torso and pull him in close. Who knew Dean Ambrose was the cuddling type? He hadn’t been before. 

“G’night,” Dean whispers against the back of Punk’s neck, soft and weary. 

“Yeah,” Punk replies, quietly. 

Dean smells like sweat and Punk’s soap, but it’s not necessarily an unpleasant mixture, and it’s the last thing Punk remembers before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
